Anthology of Anarchy
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: A series of loosely connected short drabbles about Fem!Harry being born into the vastly different houses of Westeros. Despite these differences, changes of names and faces, three things stick true. Harry has a knack for finding trouble, death is forever a close companion, and love will always be her greatest weapon. Strong M. Fem!Harry. Fem!Harry/Multi.
1. Chapter 1

**PART ONE:**

**BIRTH**

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**CHAPTER ONE: LANNISTER**

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**JOANNA BARATHEON:**

**Prompts: Hope, Twins, Tears, Possessive.**

Whittled down to her very core, stripped of all the gold and finery, even her prestigious Lannister name, right down to the sticky innards and stinking offal that made her, Cersei was nothing but her limitless, infinite, absolute love for her children. The love she had for her children, Cersei knew, knew no bounds. None at all. It was Cersei's one redeeming factor, and it was something no one, not her father, not Robert Baratheon, and definitely not this debauched court, could take from her.

Unfortunately, however, over the years, that very love, which was her only comfort most days, had also wrought her unspeakable grief and anguish. Joffrey and J-… Myrcella and Tommen were her very life. They were the beat to her heart, the thrum to her blood, the glint in her eye and the hop in her step. They were her children. Her life. Her reason to go on. They were the one good thing, just one, she had in this cruel, thankless world.

They were simply hers. Not Robert Baratheon's, with his gluttony and whores and degradation. The ghost of his precious Lyanna Stark could not reach her children. Not her fathers, Tywin Lannister's, with his legacy, name and reputation. They were not even Jaime's, her Jaime's, with his lopsided smirks, dark alcoves and secret hushed whispers of undying devotion uttered under velvet sheets and bled to life with sweat, pulsing heat and grasping fingertips.

They. Were. Hers.

Just as clear as the sun would rise once more, as humble as the tide lapping at the shore, as pure as snow in the North, this too was a fact of life. And, like the lioness she was, Cersei guarded her children possessively, jealously, pridefully, with sharp tooth and keener claw. In the end, they were all she had. Cersei also knew, painfully so, how easy it was to lose them, after all, Joffrey and Jo-… Myrcella and Tommen, were not her only children, were they?

Oh, her first-born son had been such a… Tiny thing. A bird without feathers. A crown of raven curls his shroud. The Maester's told her he had not taken a single breath before the stranger had taken him, still warm in her womb. They had taken his body away before Cersei could even get a good look, wrapped him up tightly and rushed from the chambers as if wildfire would swallow them all if they lingered near her for a moment longer. Robert had held her then, for the first and only time, as she fought, screamed, clawed and spat, battled to get to the wet nurses who had bundled her tiny, tiny broken son up in bloodstained sheets.

They had taken away her little boy and she never saw him again.

That was the first faithful taste of loss Cersei Lannister had discerned. Hot and heady and sour. Rancid meat dipped in tallow wax. Cersei had never, not once, managed to get that soiled taste off her tongue and forget the pain. Perhaps because, as it always does, more loss had followed. Stillbirths, premature deaths in cots and cradle, here one blink, gone the next.

In the infancy of marriage to Robert Baratheon, strong, laughing Robert, even the Mother could not deny that Cersei, for all her faults and misgivings, had tried to create a sincere family with the brute. Naively, she had thought of open parlours, the smell of warm tea hanging in the air, roast peacock on the table, a brood of raven-haired children bustling about her feet, summer nights spent in open air. Of course, none of this came to pass.

It was not meant to be.

Cersei did not know whether to be thankful for it being so, that she had failed to create such a charming scene, life from the great ballads, or lament the hurt of what could have been stinging, always stinging, at the back of her mind. Perhaps Cersei could feel both, especially when the moon was high above kings landing and, restless on her pillow, her mind, always working, always turning, always stinging, roiled and churned over the what ifs of her life.

Nevertheless, that loss, her featherless bird, a life she had dreamed of never fully hers, and all those stillborn, lives never full lived, Cersei's own life, she found, was a noxious assortment of too much and never enough, in a sick, perverted way, was better and easier to take than what followed. Those losses before were unarguable. Unchangeable. Permanent. There was a finality to them that offered little comfort, but gave ease to Cersei knowing the battle was over and there was nothing more she could fight for.

And then came the birth of Joffrey and Joa-…

There, with the birth of her firstborn, living, son, her Joffrey, Cersei discovered what it was like to mourn and still hope, and that, she swore to the Father, was worse than anything. That damnable pit of hope. In those days, with grief for her featherless bird still tight in her chest, the youthful hazy dreams of a happy marriage to Robert beginning to fray around the edges, Cersei had begun to spend more time with Jaime, reverting to old ways thought long dead.

How could anyone blame her? In this cesspool of politics, backstabbing and intrigue, Jaime was and always would be the only true face she had. The only true friend. Her twin. For a moment, a breath, in Jaime's company, she could pretend she was back on Casterly Rock, back where things were simpler and life was smooth and easy, and it was just her and him and-…

Yes, she found relief in Jaime. Great relief. And it was all too easy to lay in wait for Robert to drink himself to a stupor, pass out in their chambers, sneak off to Jaime's rooms, and, for once, know that someone, anyone, loved her for her, someone who didn't have to imagine the face of a dead fourteen year old Stark girl to make him spill. And, if by chance, if Cersei returned by sunrise to her chambers, before Robert awoke to groggy hangovers, and thought he had done his duty for the night and bedded his wife instead of passing out, who was she to dissuade him from such a notion?

Moreover, if, soon, her belly, once flat and sleek, began to swell, and it was only her and Jaime who knew exactly what was growing inside her womb, who was she to enlighten anyone else? If only for the protection of, what would be soon, her child? Yes, Cersei lied, cheated, and schemed, and yes, before her time was up and the Mother called her home, she would do much worse. However, for her children, her precious children, there were no lengths she would go to, and as her stomach grew rounder, thicker, heavy with life, Cersei thought, she really did, that this time… This time was going to be it.

Yet, as it often did, fate had the last laugh.

Labour started a whole moon too soon, despite all her precautions, and Cersei felt as if she was trapped in an awful, dreadful cycle, another stillborn to mourn, another loss to haunt her, another child to bury. She had been inconsolable during the first few hours of her labour, and only Jaime's steady presence at her side, urging her on, placating her with sweet oaths of fortitude, promising her it was all going to be well, he knew, eased her fear and tears. Still, she had expected the worst. A final push and an empty, silent room.

However, Joffrey, her Joffrey, had been born. Wailing. Strong. Loud. Pink faced and tight fisted and oh, so alive! The silent sisters around her busied with washing him in the golden basin, and as he was laid upon her quaking chest, screaming his little lungs dry, thin wisps of golden hair puffed at the crown of his head, green of eye, dark green, like her own, Cersei had thought she had never seen something so beautiful.

Jaime had given her the one thing Robert never could, a child, alive and fit and stout, and for that, and that alone, Jaime would always hold her heart. Nonetheless, fates laugh echoed out, history repeated itself, and when contractions struck up once more, contorting her stomach with unbearable pain baring down upon her pelvis, tearing her in two, with a bewildered Jaime beside her, Cersei Lannister discovered what her mother, Joanna Lannister, had felt all those years ago as she birthed her and Jaime.

Joanna Baratheon, Jaime's choice of name, was born an hour later. She didn't wail like her brother, nothing but a short, angry burst of a squawk erupting from her little throat, a war cry more than anything, as she fell into the Septa's arms, heralded her coming. When she was laid upon Cersei's chest, beside a still crying and snuffling Joffrey, who promptly stopped crying as he blindly wiggled and squirmed closer to his smaller twin, Cersei… Cried.

Joanna's hair was fuller than her brothers, curlier too, more Jaime wild corkscrew than Cersei's wave, a golden blonde a shade just lighter than Joffrey's, and she was more delicate too, glass boned and thin skinned, pale, so pale, but sturdy and alive, and right there, as she wiggled closer to Joffrey, staring up and out, right at Cersei, Cersei's hand, which she had not known had been moving, settled on her small, soft, rounded face in a shaking caress.

They stared at each other then, for a long while, Cersei remembered. Not like other gawking, not the kind where you take in the physical being before you, but the kind of staring that made Cersei think she could see the babe's soul, and perhaps, the babe could see hers. She could see strength in her pupils, unbound and willful. She could see cunning and pragmatism in the slant of her eyelid, long and slick. She could see fire in her iris, wildfire and passion and everything extreme. Cersei remembered her mother's eyes, Lannister green, but with such vivacity that they were a type all on their own. So bright, so alive, so fierce. It had become a saying in her family, a colour no one could replicate, that Joanna green.

The babe had Joanna's eyes.

Cersei wept then. She wept and she sobbed, and she smiled through her tears as she pulled her babes, her children close, as close as she could, to her frantically beating heart. Jaime too, when he saw those long-lost eyes, wiped something, a tear Cersei was sure, from his own eye. Nothing had mattered to Cersei then. They were hers. Her children. She had held her children all night, right at her chest, and she had watched and smiled and cooed back. In truth, that night, bed-ridden, tired, aching, bloody, but with her children with her, right in her arms, was the best night of her entire life.

Yet, misery had the last laugh.

Three moons after her birth, Joanna was taken from her bed chamber in the cusp of night, the only warning being Joffrey's incessant cries and wailing that alerted the guards stationed by the door. There had been no lead up to it, no threatening letters, no war declared from rival houses, no slights politely looked over in court, no murmur of Targaryen retaliation, nothing at all, and perhaps, Cersei thought, that was the worst of it. The abruptness. There one second, gone the next.

The only hope there had been was the absence of blood. Not a single drop spilled in the chamber. The only clue was the guards blubbering confession of hearing what sounded like a crack of lightning twice that night, in the span of minutes, when the skies had been clear. With just those tiny seeds of hope, Cersei held dear that her daughter, her Joanna, was still out there, alive, well, and one day, one day soon…

She would come home.

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**WHICH HOUSE DO YOU WANT TO SEE NEXT?**

**ABOUT THIS FIC: **This fic will be a little series of short shots detailing the lives of a Fem!Harry if she was born into different Westerosi houses. These Houses are: Targaryen, Stark, Lannister, Arryn, Tully, Greyjoy, Baratheon, Tyrell, Martell, Dayne, and finally Bolton.

All shorts falling under house Arryn, for example, will be linked, with the same Fem!Harry as the protagonist, but unlinked from other shorts, where the Fem!Harry will be born to other houses such as Lannister, Stark, Baratheon ect.

I will be going in cycles too, in over arching themes. The first theme, as you can see, is BIRTH, so I will be going through each house in little shorts introducing the other Fem!Harry's, and once that cycle is done, the theme will change, as in from Birth to, let's say, first kiss or broken foot or, even, first kill and abduction, so on and so forth. I'm also capping myself in each short to 2,000 words. (Extremely short for me lol) As a little bit of a challenge.

I hope any of that made a lick of sense, I'm absolutely terrible at explaining things lmao, but I hope, even if It doesn't, you'll see what I mean in a chapter or two. All that being said, I hope you enjoyed this little taster, will like what's to come, and, if you could let me know what House you wish to see next!

And for those up to if, if you have a prompt or two you wish to see, hopefully relating to Birth as this is the theme for the current set of shorts coming, **please send them in!**


	2. Chapter 2

**PART ONE:**

**BIRTH**

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**CHAPTER TWO: BARATHEON**

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**CASSANA BARATHEON**

**Prompts: Storm, Shipwreck, Tragedy, Dearly.**

Cassana Baratheon's fourth child was born right in the cusp of a great storm. Sailing back from the free cities with her husband, Steffon Baratheon, on the great bow of Windproud, it was as they were beginning to dock at Storm's end, passing Shipbreaker bay, an apt name if there ever was one, when the beast struck. Within the hour, the sky had turned murky and humid, hefty with anger. The air had become thick like treacle, choking in the throat as the rolling waves that had once rocked the ship in gentle spins began to batter against them.

Of course, in her delicate condition, so heavy and swollen with child, the last thing Cassana wished to be was sailing, but she and her husband had no other choice. King Aerys had, only months prior, appointed Steffon with the task of finding a bride of noble birth from an old Valyrian bloodline, for his son Crown Prince Rhaegar, in the city of Volantis, across the sea. By the time the Lord and Lady had set sail to try to complete the duty, both had been clueless to Cassana's true state, and when signs began to show, as belated as they were, it was already long past time to return home.

Steffon had sent word forward, to their firstborn son Robert, who was acting as Lord in Steffon's absence, of their soon to be arrival home, and the expectancy of a sibling, and when the weather seemed agreeable, they had cut anchor and began the long journey home.

If only the gods had been in their favour.

Right in sight of home, the storm came. Fast. Hard. As nothing like Cassana had born witness too before. The black clouds promised hail and lightning, the rising waves crooked black and dark, threatened to swallow all, and in the bowels of her Lord husband's ship, as far away from the storm raging just above their heads as she could get, Cassana was raging her own war. Straining, huffing, drenched in sweat, Cassana took the very last tatters of her strength and pushed deep.

Everything felt raw and wet, aching and throbbing, whittled down to the give and excruciating tear of her inner core as a child crowned between her shivering thighs. Steffon, who should have been aboard deck, helping navigate this sudden storm, was instead beside her. Holding her hand. Pushing her on.

She cursed him.

Cassana never remembered birthing being this hard. Robert had been quick and slick; a few pushes and he had been in her arms. Stannis had been long but gentle, barely a cry given. And her Renly, her youngest little boy, had felt like a hazy dream. This… This was pain and anger, storm and sea, a clash of will.

This was life.

The hissed moan that fell from her lips sounded nothing like her own voice, more injured animal than human, and, in the back of her mind, she thought she heard Steffon promising they were close, so close, to home, to only push a little while longer and then they could be with their boys, where they belonged, a family once more. She held on to that voice, so deep, so true, with all her worth.

She thought of Robert's smile, wide and toothy, so much like his father's. She thought of Stannis's quiet kindness, so strong, unmalleable. She thought of Renly's excitement, his endless energy. She saw Steffon's eyes, blue as the morning sky, love's bottomless reflection. And then the ship lurched as the storm trundled. And it was with this, the love of her family, the fear of a storm, that with a final cracking cry, her fourth child slipped free from her in a rush of blood.

Cassana fell to the reedy straw futon that had, coincidentally, with nothing else on hand on the ship, worked for her birthing bed, quivering, weak as a new-born fawn. The sound of a babes piercing cry reverberated through the music of the storm clashing outside. With no silent sisters to care for her, the Maester they had obtained from Volantis was left to cut her babe free from the offal of their birth.

Then her babe was on her heaving chest, nude, pink, sturdy… And everything, the storm, the agony, the terror… It had been worth everything. The babe put their new lungs to use, wailing and crying, little fists and legs kicking and jerking, a warrior if Cassana had ever saw one, as rageful as the storm whirling above their head, black hair furled and coiled in thick sprouts out of their small, angry little head and eyes the shade of summer seas. The babe was looking right at her, eyes a little misty, but they seemed to recognize their mother.

And it was a girl.

A little angry girl. Cassana was crying. Weeping. Fat, ugly sobs. It's good tears. Salty with love, wet with amazement. The babe snuffled close to her breast, a kitten lapping at the milk bowl, lapsing into a discontented bafflement at the new world around her, blinking those large wonderous eyes. Oh, Cassana adored her. Right from the beginning. Completely. Utterly. Nothing, right then, mattered.

Not the shouts of the men above deck. Not the muttering of the Maester. Not the reel and tumble of the ship as more waves blew and bashed. Just her child. Her little girl. There's a ferocity to motherhood men, Cassana thought, could never understand. It was inborn. Visceral. She had felt it with every single one of her sons, and she felt it there, for her sole daughter.

A little angry, red-faced, black of hair and blue of eye girl.

With three sons blessed already, Cassana, as odd as it sounded, was sure a fourth was to be a son too. She had not thought… She did not consider… She didn't regret it. Not one bit. A daughter. With a storm in her eye, and her father's face. A Baratheon through and through. Robert would worship her, Cassana knew that as deeply as she knew he was likely standing on the battlements of Storm's end, beside Stannis, watching as they docked, even with this storm warring around them.

Her firstborn was always boisterous, in this he would be no less. He would show her off, proud, a sister! His sister! The best beauty in the seven kingdoms! No man worthy! Stannis would be less obvious in his love, but no less equal. Stolen cakes from kitchens. Gentle smiles. Quite hours spent reading or coaxing as she learnt about the world. Always encouraging. Renly would be more mischievous. A playmate. Finally. Games frolicked in the dead of the night, when both should be slumbering. Secrets whispered. Jests played on older siblings and servants. Shared laughter and running.

Her family… Finally, complete.

Cassana looked over to Steffon, who had been silent and still at her shoulder, watching. She smiled.

"Your daughter, my Lord."

xXx

_His daughter. _

That is all Steffon Baratheon could think as he leant over his wife to pick up his child with trembling, nervous fingers. So small in his hands. Cradled to his barreled chest. Staring right back at him. So brave. By the Mother and the Father, so small. So very, very small in his arms. Delicate. Glass.

It was different to his sons. There was a lack of… Arrogance, here, with his daughter in his arms. With Robert, he had felt powerful, vast, as if he was made from a sweeping epoch cast to the furthest reaches of time yet to come. That had been his legacy, his name, secured. Safe. Trapped in skin. He had become immortal that day, he would live on through his son, so much like himself. Stannis had made him feel conceited. Two sons. His seeds planted with reckless abandon and reaped in gold. Renly had made him feel superior, now three sons where most had trouble being blessed with one. The gods had loved him. His family. Surely. Three sons and arrogance.

Yet, here and now, beholding the slight dainty face of his daughter, bundled in tatty rags in his arms, he felt so far removed from that man who had held his sons. Little more a child himself, heady with youth and pride that often go hand in hand. In a way, he felt pity for that man, shame too for the vanity, because, gazing upon eyes so much like his own, he, perhaps, understood what being a father truly meant.

Unlike Robert, he felt no urge to brag, to lift his daughter for all to see, to boast of his virility and strength to any and all that would listen. He was not immortal here. He did not reap. The gods showed no favour in the bottom cabin of his ship. He was just a man, weak in temptation, as Baratheon's often were, so damned prideful, temperamental and quick to anger… And afraid.

He is afraid.

So abruptly. Irreversibly. He was terrified. The world was suddenly cruel and dark. Unforgiving. People were pitiless. Mercy was not to be found. There were twisted games to be played, by sundry characters in places of power, lions and dragons and sand snakes hidden in shadows, and nowhere, no one, was safe. However, like Cassana's, his sweet, sweet Cassana, tears were born from love, this fear is too.

It was a deep hurt in his chest, blossoming from his frantically beating heart, made from love and devotion, hewn from terror of failure and cost. This was his daughter. So small. So new. And he was a father. It was to be his job to protect. To love. To be there, standing at her side, when no one else would. Someday his sons would outgrow him. Become bigger and, pray the gods be good, better men than he. Soon, too soon, they would not need him.

No one, ever in her life, could ever fill his shadow for his daughter. Not her brothers. No husband. There, he knew, was always a special place in a daughter's life for their father, and now, here he was, about to embark on that role. And it scared him. Excited him more than any prospect for a good battle, bedding or brawl. It made him laugh, and cry, and cuddle her closer.

Perching upon the edge of the lumpy mass of clothed straw his dear wife had crafted a miracle on, Steffon bathed in the love. He soaked it up. Let it warm him right down to his bones. He laughed. Loudly. He smiled. Truly. He kissed his wife. Longingly. He stroked his daughters wild curls. Devotedly. He thought of the future, filled with a lively castle. Old and grey. Grandchildren, so many, scuttling about his feat. A girl with his eyes and her mothers face kissing his cheek, joking with her brothers. So many years to come. So much love. So much _life. _

A future never meant to be.

The storm shrieked. The ship capsized. Screaming. Horror. Water, cold, biting. The screeching of wood snapping. Bows and sprits shattering. The terrified yell of his wife. Reaching for her. Huddling. The ground beneath them breaking as sea, icy and grim, deep, cascaded around them. The angry caw of his daughter. Nameless. The only, and last thing, Steffon Baratheon ever did, as madness and death poured about him, was hold his daughter close to his heart, looked in her eyes and prayed with an abandonment only the most desperate of men knew that she would survive.

He was mortal. Humble. The god's did not favour them that night.

Cassana Baratheon had been right, Robert and Stannis had been standing on the battlements of Storm's end. They saw the ship go down. They saw the chaos. The death. The loss. Wreckage sprawling far and wide as the ship breached against the scrags and fragmented like dropped class. The storm broke an hour later. Skies clear and crisp. Wind soft and gentle. Sea still and placid.

Tragically beautiful.

The brother's, Renly still too young left in the care of the Maester back on Storm's end, set about searching for survivors, praying their parents be amongst them. They only drug up corpses. Blue. Bloated. Grotesque. Frozen in fear. They found Cassana and Steffon on a floating bit of deck, a few measly clicks out from land, so close to home…

A squawk, high and keen, caught their attention. Stannis had to pry his father's cold, stiff arm away from his chest. He accidentally snapped a finger off. He nearly threw up. Yet, there, they saw what had caused the noise. A child. A girl. _Their sister_. It was Robert who took of his doublet to wrap around the freezing, still naked babe, yet it was Stannis who held her all the way home, tight in his arms, their parent's bodies cashed in the cabin of their ship, ready for burial, tears obscuring his vision. They named her Cassana, for their mother.

And they loved her dearly.

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**Thoughts? **

So, here's Baratheon! Did you enjoy it? I had so much fun doing this one! And I'm also sure I'm going to have so much fun exploring this Fem!Harry,Cassana as we carry on too, when I get back to her. However, I think the next one I do will end on a lighter note lol. The last two I've done have ended a bit grim, so I think it will be good to add some cheer. That being said, what house do you want to see next? The remaining houses are:

**Targaryen, Stark, Arryn, Tully, Greyjoy, Tyrell, Martell, Dayne and Bolton! **

After we finish up part one, birth, we'll pop back around to Lannister and so and so forth. So, for those asking about a carry on for Joanna, don't fear, I am coming back to her! There _will _be a reunion, and so much more. So, hope you're excited for that!

**Thank you** all for the wonderful reviews! This one's for you! I hope you liked it and are looking forward to what's to come! Thank you for all the follows and favourites as well! If you have a spare moment, drop a review, let me know what you think and what house you would like to see next, you really do give me inspiration, and, hopefully, I will see you guys soon!


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